Meera Sanyal The Quiet Years The clock on the wall ticked with an almost deliberate calm, echoing through the sun-drenched living room of Ananya Bose’s Kolkata apartment. It was 7:15 AM—the precise moment her kettle would begin its polite whistle. The smell of Darjeeling tea mingled with the scent of sandalwood from the agarbatti she’d lit during her morning puja. Her home was a carefully curated sanctuary of books, framed memories, and soft silences. At forty-three, Ananya had grown used to solitude—not the melancholy kind that clings to your skin, but the chosen kind, like a warm shawl on a…